A King in Yellow

Drawn upon beds of forgotten netting—golden claws
halved by sleep—a little one wakes for water.

A king in yellow allows it—how he loves her.

Water under the earth—of never there—trickles up a sun-colored line of leaves from
dreaming to a silver city, from Prospero’s mind to a well forgotten in shade.

A perfect and small mouth quietly tastes the greening line’s infinity.

Rekindled sleep—ever-involuting truth—runs down her chin
on her way back to bed:

A stirring rest on catching wealth—how her fancy tricks him.

__________
(Illustration above: Monster Girl, watercolor and ink on paper)

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